A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Read online

  In that place, there were no victors or valiant conquests. Only the slow drudgery of death and decay, as each side fought for a supremacy never forthcoming. All the while, Lena worked diligently in the home of Sir Percy Musgrave, watching Howard grow, and always wondering just what had become of her own dear Fraser, that bonnie lad, with a shock of black hair and the distinctive birthmark on his right hand.

  Chapter Two

  It had been cruel to separate Lena from the child, but my mother was embittered by the fact she had failed to conceive a healthy child, blinded from kindness by a desire for revenge on the woman who had so violated the sacred union she held with my father. But if Fraser had remained with his mother, it was unlikely that either would have survived, so harsh and unforgiving was the world which they inhabited.

  The old maid nursed the baby until he was strong enough to be sent away, and a family was found in a nearby village, who were desperate for a child of their own. The MacGinns were blacksmiths, peasants of a respectable sort who kept to themselves. They never ventured far from the little village of Lochrutton, which was nestled in a valley some miles from the castle at Kirklinton, a pretty place, though ever under threat of raid and pillage.

  My father did not even see the baby before he was sent away, and when the old maid told him of where she had taken him, he showed little interest. Fraser was better off being sent away; he had no love for the child — it was merely an inconvenience, a mistake from the past, which he had no desire to be reminded of. My mother, too, was pleased, and she told the old maid to see to it that the baby never knew of his true lineage.

  Thus, Fraser Elliott became Fraser MacGinn, and the peasant family was pleased that, at last, they had a child to call their own. He grew up strong and healthy, believing that the kindly man and woman who took care of him were the same as had conceived him, never knowing the truth of who he was. But what of my father’s desire for an heir? Wasn’t my mother barren? If so, however did I come to be her daughter?

  Chapter Three

  Both my parents desperately wanted a child, but as the years went by, such hope was dashed. My mother resigned herself to a childless existence, much to my father’s anger. War often came to the borderlands, and despite the truces which existed, a single spark could soon ignite the conflicts of the past. Thus, it was some two years after the birth of Fraser when the Elliotts had ridden out to war with the Armstrongs, a neighbor and the family of my birth. Sir Percy Musgrave had mounted a raid across the border, and several of the Armstrong farms were burning. The smoke rising over the countryside was a grim reminder of the lawless times in which they lived.

  The two clans charged across the marches, their swords drawn and cries of war coming from their lips. At their head was the man I call my father, Alistair Elliott, and his close friend Stewart Armstrong, who I suppose I should call my true father, brothers-in-arms, and determined to avenge themselves upon the Musgraves and deal them a bloody blow. But, as they came face to face with their foe, it was clear that they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered by the English, whose vastly superior forces would surely decimate them.

  The Musgraves charged them down and surrounded my father’s forces. From every side came English soldiers, who showed no mercy and above, atop a hill, seated on his steed, looking down in grim satisfaction, was Sir Percy Musgrave himself. He gave the order to rout their enemies and see to it that no man was left alive.

  Both my fathers fought bravely, but they could never hope to defeat the forces of the Musgraves, and in the battle, Stewart Armstrong was cruelly cut down, a man I have no memory of, except a name and a deed of valor. He had found himself surrounded, cut off from his men in a dell of trees, as his opponents felled him from his horse and saw to it that this would be his last breath, a sword driven through his heart by an English captain.

  My father did his best to rally the remaining men, but there was no hope, except to flee, and in the chaos of the battlefield, only a handful made it out alive. But Sir Percy Musgrave was determined to deal a lasting blow to the clans across the border, and he charged after the fleeing Scots, making for the Armstrongs’ home and laying waste to it.

  The fire could be seen burning for several days upon the horizon, and all inside perished, except for one, the daughter of Stewart Armstrong, a wee lass named Isla, the woman now telling you this tale. I had been hidden away from the danger by my nursemaid, and as the fires ravaged our home, I was all that was left of that once-proud clan.

  My father was devastated by the loss of his friend and by the routing of such a noble and ancient name as Armstrong. But what to do with me? I was without mother or father, alone in the world, except for my loyal nursemaid. The answer seemed simple, and in testimony to the friendship between the two lairds, my father and mother took me in, raising me as their own and it was only later I began to learn something of the truth about my lineage, setting my heart against the Musgraves and vowing to have my revenge.

  Chapter Four

  Scottish Border 1545

  Isla Armstrong was looking across the borders from her chambers at the top of the castle at Kirklinton, where she had lived since that fateful day all those years ago when her parents had been so cruelly cut down. It was a wild day; the rain having battered the borderlands these past three days, storm clouds sitting thick and foreboding above.

  Across the valley, the trees were swaying in the wind, and she could see the waterfall of the Beck, which cascaded into Lochrutton some miles across the marshes. It was a wild and lonely scene, and she shivered a little, turning back into the room and warming herself by the fire, which burned merrily in the grate — a contrast to the blackening skies outside.

  She had been looking for her father, who had ridden to one of the outlying crofts, where trouble had recently been reported. Isla was used to that word; it was one she often heard, the trouble with the English, the trouble with other clans. Trouble meant danger, and her life had been fraught with danger since its beginning.

  There was no sign of her father for the rest of the day, but he returned after nightfall, demanding food and a place by the fire. Isla sat in the hall of the castle, a large room with a heavy door and wide hearth, where many a tale had been told, victories celebrated, and defeats commiserated. It was there that she was often told to stay, while trouble brewed outside, or her father rode off to deal with yet another incursion or threat. Such was their way of life, and, as Alistair Elliott entered the room, he had a grave expression on his face.

  “Were ye successful, father?” Isla asked, as Alistair slumped before the fire, fondling the heads of the two dogs, who had run to him as he entered the room.

  “Successful?” he replied, shaking his head, “too late more like. Those English fiends did what they always dae: cross the border like cowards and set fire to the croft. Before we can retaliate, they are gone, ‘tis the same every time.”

  “Was anyone harmed? Did they make off with anythin’?” Isla replied, shaking her head at the sad tale her father was recounting.

  “Aye, they took cattle, but none of the folks were harmed, just left scared and confused. Too long has it been like this, there are times I think we have the upper hand, and others when I fear we shall nae even hold this place, let alone protect our folks,” he said, spitting into the fire.

  Isla was silent for a moment; she had grown up listening to tales of English brutality, and she had seen enough violence in her short life to last a lifetime. Her father had done his best to shield her from the worst, determined to see no harm come to her, the memory of her family’s demise all too fresh. But Isla Armstrong was the daughter of lairds, brave and determined, and she had a desire to fight for her clan, and to see her parents avenged. She had often asked to accompany her father on his rides out, but the answer had always been no. She must remain at the castle, safe from the wicked English, who would show no mercy to a Scottish lass on the battlefield.

  They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling in the hearth,
the dogs lying sleepily before it. Outside, the storm was now blowing up again, raging across the borderlands and causing the wind to whistle around the castle.

  “Dae ye think another attack will come soon, father?” Isla eventually asked. Alistair Elliott raised his sad face to her and shook his head.

  “Sooner rather than later, lass. The English are regrouping, and that Percy Musgrave will stop at nothin’ until every Scot along the border is cut down, ye mark my words. Especially now that his son is of age,” he replied.

  It was with a heavy heart that Isla ate her supper that night, knowing that all around them, danger lurked, waiting to pounce. How she longed to join her father on the battlefield and face the enemy in war. She had heard many tales of bravery and valor and watched from afar as her fellow clansmen sacrificed themselves for her safety. She was determined to have revenge, whether her father allowed her to fight or not, and she knew that soon the time would come when a lass would prove herself just as much a warrior as any lad of the clan.

  Chapter Five

  The blacksmith’s workshop at Lochrutton was home to two brothers, Fraser and Duncan MacGinn. Their parents had died suddenly in the winter of the previous year, succumbing to a fever that had swept the village. Fraser was twenty years old and now found himself an orphan, though as the inheritor of the blacksmith’s workshop, he at least had the means to support himself and his younger brother. Duncan was a bright lad, though he possessed none of the skill with a forge that their father had imparted to his elder son. He spent much of his time with the local priest, harboring dreams of entering the priory at Lanercost and following the religious life

  It was a bleak morning, the mist hanging low in the valley and across the loch. Fraser was at his work, hammering tools into shape and making horseshoes for one of the local crofters. He was a simple lad, handsome and straight-talking, though shy, and more at home in the workshop than the company of others. His life thus far had been predictable and uneventful. At times, they would hear tales of far off battles or victories won over the English, but such things were of little concern when there was bread to put on the table.

  3

  “Ye cannae dae it like that, Duncan,” Fraser said, as he watched his brother trying to hammer out a horseshoe on the anvil.

  “What dae ye mean? I am doin’ it just like ye showed me,” his younger brother replied.

  “Nae, ye are nae. If ye were doin’ it as I showed ye, then ye wouldnae have got it crooked like that. Come here, let me show ye. Honestly, Duncan, ‘tis quicker if I see to this work myself than have ye helpin’ me,” Fraser said, wiping his hands on his tunic and going over to the anvil, as Duncan stood back.

  He hammered the shoe back into shape expertly and placed it, hissing and steaming, into a pail of water at the side. Fraser worked hard, shodding horses and mending broken tools. He sold his wares to local crofters and forged swords and other weapons for the clansmen of the local lairds. The two brothers lived in their parents’ home, a simple cottage attached to the workshop. It was a simple life, and Fraser liked that, despite the hardships he and his brother faced. The two had forged what any outsider might call a happy life.

  “Ye see, now ‘tis properly done. Now, make yerself useful and go to Cora Macleod’s for a loaf of bread. She bakes today, and we shall need some supper if we are nae to starve,” Fraser said, handing his brother a few silver pennies.

  Duncan nodded, but as he turned to leave, he let out a cry and pointed towards the ridge above the village. There, outlined along its top, was a line of clansmen on horseback. It appeared they were riding out to fight, and Fraser came to join his brother as they watched the soldiers above. The village lay in a dip between two ridges, surrounded by thick woodland, which led down to the shores of the loch. Nestled there, they rarely saw travelers passing by, and the sight of the soldiers was unusual.

  “Where dae ye think they go, brother?” Duncan said, peering curiously up at the ridge as the soldiers disappeared.

  “I dinnae know, and I dinnae care, so long as they dinnae bother us. Except perhaps with the shoes they will nae doubt kick from the poor animals’ feet as they ride out. Then they may come to be shod,” Fraser replied, returning to his work.

  But Duncan remained watching, and as he did so, he once again let out an exclamation, calling Fraser over to his side.

  “What now, Duncan, can ye nae see we have work to dae,” Fraser said, laying aside his hammer again, and coming irritably to the door of the workshop.

  “Is that a lass up there?” Duncan said, pointing up to the ridge.

  Fraser put his hand to his eyes and squinted towards the solitary figure who had now appeared riding slowly along the ridge. Whoever it was had a far shorter stature than those that had just passed by and was riding upon a white horse, but without banner at their side. Fraser shook his head.

  “I cannae see, but nae lass would be riding out to raid, or wherever it is those men were going to. It looks almost like a child, very odd indeed,” he said, a puzzled look upon his face.

  “It is a lass; I can see her long hair,” Duncan said, turning to his brother.

  “Enough now, Duncan, away to Cora Macleod’s, and be sure to get a decent-sized loaf. Otherwise, it shall be baking ye must learn, as well as the work of a blacksmith. Does Father Dunbar teach ye nothin’ but yer prayers?” Fraser replied, watching and smiling as his brother ran off into the village.

  Once again, he looked to the ridge; he could just see the solitary figure about to ride into the forests above. Duncan was right; it was a lass, and now, Fraser could make out her long red hair flowing down her back. How strange to see a lass riding out in such a way on the trail of soldiers. Fraser shook his head and returned to his work. These were strange times and make no mistake.

  Chapter Six

  Isla had grown used to her father’s ways over the years, and it was something of a running joke between them. He would go on a raid or skirmish across the border, and she would ask if she could accompany him. The answer was always the same: no.

  The reasons he would give were always the same: it was too dangerous, or the threat was too great. What if something happened to him? Who would look after the good folks of the clan? No, Isla must remain at home, safe and secure in the castle. Though the castle was far from safe, it was a refuge, at least, and a place that Isla had grown weary of over the years.

  Three times during her short life, they had come under attack in what was meant to be their home. And not only from Sir Percy Musgrave and his English allies, but also from other clans, hungry for conquest and wealth. On these occasions, she had taken refuge in the hall of the castle, barricaded behind the doors as her father had ridden out to fight. She had watched helplessly as he had charged down the enemy, knowing that at any moment, he could be killed.

  How she had longed to follow him into battle and win victory for her clan and for her father. She knew that today would be no different. Her father planned to march out and confront the Musgraves. He and his fellow clansmen had planned a daring raid on their southern neighbors. It was all just tit for tat; neither side ever gained the upper hand, but each enjoyed the chance for the boast and bravado any minor victory might bring.

  The Musgraves burned a farm on which Elliott men and women tilled the land, and in revenge, the Elliotts would cross the border and wreak havoc with the Musgrave cattle or lay waste an English farm. That was the order of things, and that was how it always had been, with neither side ever gaining the advantage.

  Alistair Elliott was sharpening his sword, the sound of the metal against stone echoing around the hall. Isla was watching her father from beside the fire, and knowing his response, she cleared her throat, causing him to look up, pausing from his work.

  “Aye, lass, ye have somethin’ ye wish to say?” he said, running his finger gingerly along the sword’s edge.

  “Ye are riding out today, father? Where is it ye are going?” she asked.

  “South, past the vil
lage of Lochrutton and on toward the Musgrave lands. We shall cross the border and burn the farm belongin’ to the Howard family, allies of Sir Percy and folks who would happily see us all burn in our beds,” her father replied.

  “And ye wouldnae allow me to accompany ye, I suppose? If only to watch from a distance?” she said, not meeting her father’s eye as he let out a laugh and shook his head.

  “Nae lass, I wouldnae. Ye know the reason why. I have often repeated it to ye: ‘tis too dangerous for ye, and if anythin’ happened to ye, I would never forgive myself. Nae, ye are to stay here, ye understand,” Alistair said, raising up his sword, the edge of which had been sharpened to a fine point.

  Isla made no reply, disappointed by her father’s words, though they were precisely the ones she expected. It was always the same, but despite her disappointment in the predictable response, she had determined that today would be different. She had been mulling over it for some time and had determined that the time was right. Today, she would follow her father out to ride, watching from afar.